


Curse Me Good

by WetSammyWinchester



Category: Friday the 13th Series (Movies), My Bloody Valentine (2009)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Dark, M/M, Minor Character Death, POV Outsider, Serial Killers, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-19 11:37:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13703682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WetSammyWinchester/pseuds/WetSammyWinchester
Summary: Friends of the Miller family said that Clay was a good kid, well liked, a good athlete, but tragedy seemed to follow him. A deadbeat dad, a cancer-stricken mother and then a missing sister. When his sister was murdered at Crystal Lake, it seemed to be the last straw.





	Curse Me Good

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sweetheartdean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetheartdean/gifts).



> Written for the J2 Jukebox song prompt of _Curse Me Good_ by The Heavy for Tom/Clay for the lovely marietwist. Hope you like it! 
> 
> Thanks to my betas [zmediaoutlet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride) and [alulaspeak](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AlulaSpeaks/pseuds/AlulaSpeaks) for all the feedback - you are the best!

Clay comes to the store every Wednesday at noon. That’s what the clerk said who called Ronnie’s tip line. Clay has become a fixture in this backwoods Colorado town. Once a week, he has breakfast at the diner, spends a few hours at the library down the street, and then picks up his groceries at the Pay-N-Take market.

According to Ronnie’s interviews, the locals had gotten used to the purr of the Indian as it rolled through the small town but nobody really knew much about the rider. “Seems like a good guy” and “has a nice smile” were all the gossip he could get out of them.

Ronnie glanced at the clock on his Corolla dashboard, tapping his fingers against the wheel. His coffee had gone cold more than an hour ago so he pulled out the file on Clay Miller to keep his hands busy as the minutes ticked by.

Police photos showed a tall guy, 6’4” or 6’5”, with shaggy hair and impressive broad shoulders. _Looks more like the captain of a high school football team than a victim_ , Ronnie thought. Despite the hero’s build, Clay had the same angry-scared-lost look in his eyes that Ronnie had seen in any one of the victims that he blogged about on _True Crime Junkie_. 

Friends of the Miller family said that Clay was a good kid, well liked, a good athlete, but tragedy seemed to follow him. A deadbeat dad, a cancer-stricken mother and then a missing sister. When his sister was murdered at Crystal Lake, it seemed to be the last straw.

The Hancock County Sheriff’s report said that a couple was driving by and found Clay wandering by the side of the road, bleeding and bruised and talking about monsters that wouldn’t die. The authorities were called out and the crime scenes had dead victims scattered like tornado wreckage between them, including Clay’s sister, Whitney. 

Wasn’t much of a leap for detectives in the small and underfunded department to tie the vicious killings back to the Valentine’s Day Killer and his rampage just one hundred miles away in Harmony. No heart-shaped boxes but plenty of blood and brutality as part of the killer’s M.O., so they handed their files over to the FBI and with relief turned back to investigating break-ins and boating accidents.

A low roar filled the air and Ronnie looked up from the file. Sure enough, a cherry Indian rolled into the parking lot of the Pay-n-Take. The kid on the bike shook out his hair and threw one long leg over the back of the bike. As Clay stretched his arms above his head, Ronnie eyed the little strip of stomach that showed above his belt, the skin smooth and tan down to a dark trail of hair with the slightest hint of hip bones.

 _The kid should really wear leathers and a helmet when riding that bike_ , he mused. _Would be a shame to mess up that pretty face and body_.

As he threw the file back in his bag, his adrenaline started to pump. This was it. The last piece he needed for the book. 

His paying job was a good gig. Ronnie had a knack for writing up a good story and drawing lurid details out of police and witnesses. But a book about VDK? That would be something else. It would put him right up there with Ann Rule or Joe McGinniss; he was sure of it. Problem was his editor wanted more interviews, and this interview with Clay in particular before they would publish anything.

He rolled down his car window and pulled out his iPhone to film the kid discreetly as he secured his bike. Clay was as tall as they said and looked like he could bench press 200 pounds or more with biceps like that. 

As Clay went inside, Ronnie grabbed his keys and shoved the phone into his jacket pocket. The tinkle of the bell over the market’s front door had the greasy clerk at the cash register turn his head to meet Ronnie’s eyes and nod quickly at him before turning back to Clay.

“Yo, Clay, got your order right here,” the clerk said, pulling two small sacks up on the counter. “You should definitely check out Martha’s apple pies in the back - fresh baked this morning. She makes some righteous pie.”

“Thanks,” Clay said, laughing and flashing a nice pair of dimples. “Not sure how that stuff would make it home in one piece on the bike. Maybe I’ll bring the Bronco next time.”

The clerk wrinkled up his nose. “That wreck? Dude, it’s like thirty years old and needs a paint job.” 

“Thirty five. And it’s not old, it’s vintage. Besides—“ Clay paused, his smile faltering as he noticed Ronnie watching him. He nodded once before ducking his head and scooting off to the side. “I need to pick up something at the pharmacy counter. Be right back.”

Ronnie swallowed down the smile that threatened to take over his face as he followed behind, feigning interest in the fresh baked apple pies and display of flashlights and batteries. 

_This is too easy. The kid’s friendly, maybe not all that bright._ All he needed to do was get Clay alone, chat him up over a few beers at the local bar. If everything went right, they could do a more in-depth interview back at the motel. 

This was shaping up to be a good day, that might turn into a good night.

He shadowed Clay to the back of the store and watched as he talked with the old guy at the pharmacy counter. Ronnie picked a bottle of Pepto Bismol off the shelf and ran his finger down all the types of gastric distress listed on the label. 

“Thanks for special ordering that chamomile citrus tea last week, Ray.” Clay smiled at the pharmacist as he meticulously counted the white horse pills and slid them into a brown prescription bottle. When he was finished, he held the white bag out to Clay.

“Make sure you let Tom know that this new prescription may cause dizziness, so no driving—“

Ronnie fumbled the Pepto, and it knocked several other bottles off the shelf, creating a messy pile of pink plastic at his feet. _Shit, shit. Tom. Tom Freaking Hanniger_. 

He didn’t believe in coincidences. Writing about true crime stories taught him that. He had been so focused on finding Clay all this time that he hadn’t thought about Tom or that the two might still be connected somehow.

VDK himself. This was the jackpot of all jackpots.

According to the Harmony police reports, Tom had escaped the cave-in at the Hanniger mines. They were unsure where he went after Crystal Lake.

This was too good. Clay Miller, the only survivor of that massacre, and his sister’s killer were somehow together. He eyed Clay’s back. The kid seemed okay, a little skittish but smiling and happy. Maybe a case of Stockholm syndrome? Tom tracking down the one who got away and then deciding to keep him and live happily ever after? _Now that would sell a hell of a lot of books._

Clay’s original story about the murders didn’t make much sense at the time. He blamed Jason Voorhies for kidnapping and killing his sister and all of the others at Crystal Lake. The sheriff dismissed it out of hand. The boy was obviously in shock and he knew for a fact he could take Voorhies off the list of suspects. Jason wasn’t likely to rise from the dead to kill a bunch of horny teenagers again. 

Nurses at the Hancock County hospital told Ronnie that they medicated the poor boy five ways to Sunday, but none of those pills seemed to quiet Clay’s mind. Five days after the murders, he checked himself out of the hospital and disappeared into the wind on that bike of his.

Ronnie was trying to stack the Pepto back on the shelf when he noticed his target had moved back to the front counter, grabbing his grocery bags and walking out the entrance into the sunshine. Ronnie tossed the last of the bottles at the shelf and ran out to follow.

“Hey, wait up,” he said as he jogged up to where Clay was squeezing items into two saddle bags on the Indian.

Clay looked up and squinted in the sunlight, before straightening out to his full height. “Do I know you?”

Ronnie extended his hand, and gave his best trust-me smile. “Not yet. I’m a writer for True Crime Junkie. I’d love to talk to you—“

“No.” Clay turned his attention back to tucking the white prescription bag inside one of the leather pouches and securing the nylon straps.

“Look, if this is a bad time, maybe we could grab a cocktail or dinner tonight. I’m buying. So, I’m writing a book—“

Clay looked up, his face drained of any color. “No, not a chance.” He swung his leg over the bike and Ronnie grabbed at his forearm, not willing to let his big chance drive away.

“But people need to hear your—“

Clay’s laugh was brittle as he yanked his arm back. “Please. You’re not the only reporter who tracked me down. You don’t care about people - you care about selling books.” He started up the bike, giving it a throaty rev from the throttle before turning back to face Ronnie. “If you knew what was good for you, you’d leave right now.”

The exhaust and the threat hung in the air, as Clay spun the back tire in the gravel and pulled away.

***

Ten minutes later and a hundred bucks lighter, Ronnie walked back out of the Pay-n-Take with Clay’s address written on a slip of cash register tape.

***

It was an unmarked drive off the main road. The full moon lit up the gravel drive white as bone as it twisted through the thick pines. Ronnie would have preferred to do a stakeout on his subject under complete darkness, seated in his heated car with a cup of coffee in one hand and his camera in the other, but instinct told him not to let Clay slip through his fingers.

He cut the car’s headlights as a small cabin came into view about a quarter mile up the hill. The place was nothing special. A vacation home built in the 1950s, not meant for year round living - small, rustic, with a rundown porch that ran along the front of the cabin and a large river rock chimney up one side. 

A yellow light flickered through the front window. Someone was home.

He parked at the side of the road, hidden from the sight-line of the cabin, and made his way up the driveway by foot. The gravel was loose and slick under his sneakers and he walked slowly to avoid making more noise.

There was no garage attached to the cabin, just a large shed in the back. The Indian was parked along the side by the chimney, and next to it sat an old gray Ford Bronco. 

Vintage, Clay had called it; piece of trash, Ronnie thought as he approached it. 

Pennsylvania license plates caught his eye and he pulled out his notebook to jot down the numbers. A shadow moved across the light in the front window and Ronnie dodged over to hide in the bushes underneath. Voices carried through the glass, loud enough that he could catch some of what they were saying.

“Tom, the guy tracked me down—“ The voices became garbled but louder as they talked over each other. Ronnie walked his hands up the rough wood siding to the window frame and stood on his toes to peer inside. Clay was pacing in front of the couch, running his hands through his hair, pushing it off his face. “That’s the second reporter in the past month.”

 _Another reporter?_ Ronnie thought. _Haven’t seen anything on the wires. They must be sitting on the story for some reason, which means I gotta move quick._

He caught a glimpse of the guy on the couch between Clay’s long legs as he paced, but still no clear view of VDK’s face. 

“We’re a thousand miles from where we need to be.” Clay threw his arms up and the anguish in his voice came clearly through the thin window pane. “If you can’t decide then maybe I should go by myself.” 

“No, we go together,” the other voice said in response. “You won’t face him alone. Not now. Not ever.” 

_Face who?_ Ronnie thought. There weren’t any other players still on the board from the two crime scenes, and these two had no family worth mentioning.

“--then we leave for Crystal Lake tomorrow.” Clay turned towards the window as he spoke and looked right at where Ronnie was hiding. He ducked out of view. Common sense and a healthy dose of fear told him to run - a dangerous serial killer was sitting no more than fifteen feet away - but this? What was happening tonight was the scoop of a lifetime and he needed proof, because no one, not even his editor, would believe this story.

Ronnie edged up slowly again. Looking in the window, his view of the second man was finally clear. He expected to be terrified at the sight of the VDK. Ruthless. Subhuman. A killer. Yet the guy on the couch took his breath away. 

Tom Hanniger was pretty, even prettier than Clay, and the perfect picture of a rich boy with a Cupid’s bow mouth, groomed hair and soft manicured hands. Those soft hands, which had wielded a pickaxe to dig human hearts out of people’s chests, were struggling to open a small prescription bottle.

Clay made a soft snort. “Here, give it to me,” he said, extending his hand, his lips now turned up at the corners.

Tom looked at Clay’s face and licked his lips, before handing over the bottle. When the lid popped off, Clay handed it back and their fingers touched for a moment and Tom smiled back. “My hero. Always saving me.”

Clay laughed and bent down to place a soft kiss on Tom’s open lips. “Smartass.” 

Tom wrapped his fingers around Clay’s wrist and yanked the bigger man down beside him on the couch with a surprised grunt and gripped the back of his neck, pulling him for a deep kiss, before resting their foreheads together. “You know I’d do anything for you, Clay, but you need to calm the fuck down about leaving. You’re not ready to face him.”

Clay eeled away from Tom’s touch, his mouth turned down again, and slid just out of reach. “It’s been months. We sit in this cabin and wait, while Jason is out there—“ When Tom went to grab his wrist again, Clay pushed him back. “I’m not waiting anymore.”

There was a flash of motion as Ronnie watched and his heart pounded as Clay was thrown down on the couch cushions, arms pinned above his head. Tom might be shorter but he was thick through the thighs and chest, and held Clay down as he straddled his hips. The firelight played across Tom’s face and Ronnie felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. The boy from earlier, the one with the soft hands and shy smile, was gone and something darker had taken his place. Something that was fierce and ready to bite.

“What do you want from me, Clay?” Tom’s voice was lower than before, a honeyed rumble that had Ronnie adjusting the front of his jeans as he strained to hear more. “After all we’ve been through. You think I won’t be there for you?” 

“No, no,” Clay said. “You know what I want. To kill that son of a bitch.” 

“I know you do. And we will.” Tom nosed along Clay’s jawline, and he brought one hand down between them, cupping Clay through his jeans. “Anything else you want? Something right now?”

Clay bucked his hips with a groan. Tom didn’t let go and continued to work Clay’s cock through the denim. “Tell me.”

“What?” Clay blew the word, breathless, and arched his body up against Tom. “I don’t—"

“Yes, you do.” 

Ronnie couldn’t breathe as he watched the two tangled together on the ratty couch, and pushed down on his half-hard cock with the heel of his hand, before grabbing the iPhone in his jacket pocket. This would be a huge money maker - video of the VDK and his last victim. Good looking and gay. Serial killers and Stockholm syndrome. The bulge in his pants grew painfully hard thinking about the book tour, the X-tube video, maybe even a Dateline NBC special. 

He checked that the flash was off the phone and that the video was switched on before sliding the phone up over the window ledge. Given the glow of the fireplace inside, the two men on the couch were perfectly framed and lit better than most porn videos. 

_Fuck yeah, that’s what I’m talking about._

Clay’s jeans were opened and and Tom was pulling them down, snugging them past the generous curve of Clay’s ass while he kissed along the soft skin of his stomach. Clay ran his hands through Tom’s hair, tugging on the roots until he looked up. Tom moved up as if for a kiss but stopped and fixed Clay with an intense look. “Tell me.”

“Anything,” Clay said.

“Tell me that when we kill Jason, you won’t leave.” Tom pressed down on top of Clay, pining him tight to the plaid cushions. Clay tried to take a kiss but Tom dodged away, waiting for the answer. 

“You know the answer to that. I’m not going anywhere. You’re all I have left.”

Tom slid his hand under the waistband of Clay’s shorts, and Clay hissed, his head twisting to the side so that his features was lit by the flames. 

The angle was wrong to see what Tom was doing with his hand, but then Tom slid further down between Clay’s knees and whatever he was doing had the right effect. Clay’s eyes fluttered shut and his moans were easy to pick up on the phone’s mic.

 _Oh my god. Oh my god. This can’t be happening._ Ronnie’s own palm started to sweat and the arm holding up the camera was cramping like a son-of-a-bitch. 

Tom looked up and licked his palm and his shoulder muscles rolled smoothly beneath his t-shirt as he gave a couple slow pulls before ducking his head between Clay's thighs. Ronnie could see the sweat running down Clay’s throat as he opened his long legs even wider, snapping his hips up and making Tom take all of him. Tom grasped at Clay’s hips, holding him down, to set a slow deliberate up-and-down pace. Clay moaned, his hands mindlessly skating between the cushions, Tom’s hair, and his own flat tan stomach, unsure where to land. 

“Tom, look at me. I’m gonna--”

 _Oh yeah, coming up on the money shot,_ Ronnie thought, and the noises Clay was making made him wish he had a free hand right then. _If I could just get a little better angle_ \--

He was switching the phone over to his left hand when it started to vibrate with a call from his publisher. _Shit_. _Shit_. He fumbled it onto the ground where the device continued to vibrate, loud and irritating in the surrounding silence. It landed screen side down and he raked his fingers through the dirt of the flower bed, before feeling the rubber case to grab it. Brushing off the dirt, he saw that the call had gone to voicemail and took a deep breath. 

_Wait til he hears this story, it’s gonna blow his mind._

Moving back into position, he turned on the video again and peeked over the window frame. The couch was empty, and there was no one in the living room.

_Well, that’s not good._

“You like the show?” Tom asked, as he walked up behind him, his eyes silver in the moonlight. His tone was conversational but his fingers were wrapped around the pickaxe hanging at his side. It dangled down, its dark head swinging back and forth gently, bumping his leg.

Ronnie eyed the weapon and slid his back along the rough log wall, fingers creeping over the rough bark, as he inched towards the driveway. “Wasn’t like that. I just wanted to talk to Clay. If I could just explain to him—“

“I know who you are. Clay told me.” Tom swung the pickaxe to rest on his shoulder and Ronnie flinched. “See, that’s the thing. Clay doesn’t have anything to say to you. He has more important things on his mind. But me? I only have one thing on my mind.”

Ronnie made a break for it as his hindbrain kicked in. He tried to sprint across the gravel driveway, but it was slippery and he couldn’t get any traction from his stupid loafers. One shoe flipped off his foot and Ronnie fell face first, pain shooting up from his right hand. Instinct kept him moving and he started to belly crawl across the drive. The footsteps behind him weren’t hurried, crunching the gravel like a bad horror movie. _Or a dream. This has got to be a bad dream._

Ronnie didn’t look back at the noise but kept crawling, letting out a yelp as a large hand grasped his ankle and flipped him back over as if he were a child.

“Yeah, I’m sorry about this,” said the dark figure above him. Its head was ringed in moonlight, its voice more buttery smooth than the last. There was no pickaxe in his hand and Ronnie’s chest burst with the singular hope that he might get out of here alive. “We can’t let you go.”

Another hand reached for him from the side, pinning him down across the chest, and he saw the blur of the pickaxe coming down. The pain was transcendent as it pierced through his shoulder, busting through bone and skin and into the ground below.

He writhed against the metal point, gripping the handle between his two hands, which only made his vision red. Fear started to burrow into him, spreading alongside the pain. _Get up, get the fuck up right now._

He turned his head and saw his phone laying on the gravel beside him, its video camera still recording but now pointed up at the sky, and reached for it, his fingers brushing the edges of the case and knocking it further away. He growled out his pain and frustration as two pairs of shoes entered his line of sight. Clay and Tom stood above, looking down at him, shoulder to shoulder in the moonlight, their eyes shining like wolves at the edge of the forest.

“--so noisy,” said Clay.

“I don’t normally let ‘em live this long,” said Tom.

“Huh, now I know why.”

“Listen,” Ronnie gasped, trying to stay still against the burning rod of iron in his shoulder. “I won’t tell anyone where you are. It can be our little secret.”

Tom started forward with his jaw clenched, but Clay grabbed the front of his shirt.

“We don’t have time for this,” Clay said, shaking Tom to get his attention. “We’re leaving in the morning, so you’ve got to keep things-- locked down tight. Okay?”

Tom turned away from Ronnie and took a hold of Clay’s hand where it was fisted his shirt. His hand was covered in blood - _that’s all my blood_ \- and it transferred to Clay’s grey shirt, streaks of black on white in the moonlight. “Okay. But we have to finish this tonight. No evidence left behind. If the cops find us now, that means no Jason.” 

He reached up to cup Clay’s face and rubbed his thumb there, leaving a streak of blood that was black as coal along the ridge of the cheekbone, and Clay leaned into the touch. 

“I’ll always take good care of you, baby,” Tom said, now rubbing the blood along the other cheek, kissing Clay’s lips. Clay’s hands fell down to the waistband of Tom’s jeans, his fingers twining through the belt loops before pulling him close, bumping hip to hip. “But first, you gotta help me, okay?”

Clay nodded and Tom whispered in his ear, before Clay jogged off behind the cabin. 

Ronnie’s vision blurred and while the two were distracted, he pushed against the handle of the pickaxe and it came out of the dirt beneath him, but the curve of its head still grabbed his shoulder from behind. As he moved it, blood began to flow fast from the wound. Rolling onto his side, he made a grab for his phone again before Tom’s foot slammed down, cracking the small bones in his wrist.

“Think I forgot you?” Tom leaned down to pick up the phone and snickered as the screen lit up his face. He ground his foot down on Ronnie’s wrist as he played with it, turning the sound on and rewinding the video. Tom’s eyes narrowed as he watched. “Such a bad man, recording people like this, invading their privacy.” 

He kicked Ronnie in the ribs several times as Clay came running up with a shovel. Tom took it from him and threw it aside before handing the phone over.

Clay’s face twisted in the flickering light as he watched the screen, and whatever hope Ronnie had that Clay would save him died. _He’s the good guy. He’s supposed to be the hero._

“I know you don’t like this part,” Tom said. He reached down and wrapped his fingers around the wooden handle and the slight movement of the tool sent shocks through the nerves in Ronnie’s spine. “And that’s okay - you’re not ready yet.”

Clay bit his lip and pushed Tom out of the way. He yanked it out of Ronnie like pulling a band-aid off. As he adjusted his grip on the wooden handle, Tom stood behind Clay and placed his hands on his hips and leaned against his back.

“You can do this. Make it count on the first try.” 

Tom stepped back to give him space. His breath hitched as Clay swung the pickaxe over his head and the point sank into Ronnie’s chest. 

Ronnie couldn’t feel it, not anymore, he couldn’t move, his body was too tired from the blood loss, and his sight narrowed down to a hole up to the sky above, where the moon was shining, full and round.

Tom stepped up and pried the pickaxe from Clay’s frozen fingers, and Ronnie’s body rocked back and forth like a rag doll in the dust as the tool was pulled out for the final time. His tunnel of light, that small hole of vision where he could see the sky, closed up, and he heard the ax hitting the gravel beside his head. 

“You’re ready now, baby. Go pack your bags.”


End file.
